Moth to a Flame
by pinkpeaches
Summary: My version of "The Box"......shipper style


Title: Moth to a Flame 

Author: Lulu 

Email: little_pink_monkeys64@hotmail.com 

Feedback: craved and greatly appreciated 

Distribution: Why not? Just ask me first 

Disclaimer: They belong to that genius over at ABC…please don't sue me :D 

Rating: PG-13 (All just words) 

Classification: Angst, Romance 

Summary: "The Box, Part I" rewritten shipper style…enjoy!   


~*~*~*~ 

The fire cracked loudly from its bed cradled in the brick nook carved into the walls of creamy white. Francie was in a certain mood and had proceeded to illuminate every fireplace in the house until the apartment was glowing with a natural warmth that comforted the skin the moment one stepped inside. For some reason she had seen it coming. Today had been one of the worst days she could possibly have, and it was always on those days that the world was nothing but a fucking ray of sunshine. The unpredictable weather that southern California was gifted with had lived up to its legacy of eighty-degree weather in the winter and there was naught a cloud to be seen for miles. The days of rain had draped the majestic mountains in a lacy blanket of white that made them stark, overbearing beauties that were a change from the normal smoggy landscape. And she absolutely couldn't stand it. 

"Syd!" Francie exclaimed, running towards her with her long coat clutching her left arm. After slipping her right arm through the sleeve she drew Sydney into a tight embrace. Scanning the expression on her face she frowned slightly."Bad day?" 

With that Sydney smiled slightly, shutting her eyes as she exhaled the breath she hadn't known she was holding in. "Like you wouldn't believe. 

" I'm sorry sweetie. Listen, I'm meeting Charlie for lunch in Melrose, you're more than welcome to join us-" 

"No, no don't worry about it. I think all I need is a really long bath and anything with liquor in it." Her answer   
suppressed a laugh from both parties as Francie gazed at her friend with a doubting eye. 

"Well I'll call to check up on you later." 

"Don't worry about me-just enjoy yourself and give Charlie a hug for me." 

The moment the door shut she slumped slowly to her bedroom, pulling off the coat off her shoulders at a snail's   
pace. Rolling her neck to twist out the kinks she sighed and kicked off her heels, moving in stocking-feet over to her closet. She frantically rummage through it until she found what she had been searching for. 

The flowered hatbox had been something she found at an estate sale in San Marino while listlessly driving around with her mother one day. It fascinated her to no end and the joy she had when it was finally purchased was something she could never forget. She remembered how her mother was hesitant but ended up reluctantly   
submitting to the nagging. 

She crawled to the foot of her bed and placed the box on the pristine white goose-down quilt. Tracing the lid with the pads of her fingers she then quickly threw it to the floor beside her. Staring back at her were the smiling eyes of Laura Bristow. 

The glint in those deep brown eyes drew forth a wave of nausea from the pit of her stomach. She threw the picture aside and dug down further, coming up with the article that bore the picture of her mother and her killer. The bitter tears stung her eyes as she ripped the both the picture and the article in half, watching in bittersweet satisfaction as the flames engulfed them at the moment of contact. She twisted and sat with her elbows straight on her knees, hanging her head in defeat. 

How could she have done this? Sydney thought. How the hell could my mother be such a bitch? How the fuck   
could my mother go to bed at night and know that she brought a child into this world to save her own ass? How   
could she have just torn out my father's heart like that? How? 

"How?" She muttered aloud, a single tear breaking through the dam and tracing the outer contours of her cheek. A wretched sob drew itself forth, breaking the firm resolve she swore she would keep. The tears began to flow down from her closed lashes unchecked, each trail staining her face as the comforting fire quickly melted each tear away. In a meek effort to silence herself she gently placed her fingers over her lips, finding that the tears only came down harder. 

"How what?" a gentle voice called from behind her. Sydney deftly stood and spun to see a certain Agent Michael Vaughn in her doorway, his built torso leaning against the frame. A look foreign to her was plaster across the deep green that had settled in his irises and a small smile grew on his face as she stared at him in shock. 

"How-I-You can't-" 

"Relax, Sydney. Do you really think I would risk coming here if I knew it wasn't safe? You owe your father a favor, by the way." He paused and flashed her a gentle knee-weakening grin before he continued. "Don't worry. The place is clean. He made sure of that." 

Before he could even say another word she shut her eyes, pursing her lips down together in hopes of hiding their quivering. She took a moment to swallow the large lump that had collect itself at the pit of her throat and opened her eyes to peer at him through a watery gaze. "Vaughn-I-" Her voice crackled, and even though she made an effort to move her lips no sound passed through them. She crossed the distance between them and collapsed into his tight embrace. And she let go. 

She let go of everything. That moment, in his arms, she didn't care. She didn't care that she was a double agent trying to infiltrate the very deadly SD-6. She didn't care that she was risking national security every moment she spent with him. She didn't care that her entire life up to that point had virtually been a lie. She cared about the moment. She cared about him. She cared about them. 

The them that never could be. No matter how safe she felt in his arms she knew that she could never be safe there until she took them down. There could be moments like these, little stolen moments here and there. But as he held her there, stroking her chestnut curls, whispering gentle words of comfort, none of that mattered. 

"I'm so sorry," Sydney whispered after she had taken a firm grip on the control that she had lost. She lightly traced the area where her head had rested on his chest, now damp from her salty tears. A strong finger curled underneath her chin and tilted it upward to meet his gentle green eyes. 

"Why?" 

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry that it has to be like this. I'm sorry my mother came and shattered your life-I'm sorry you grew up without a father-I…" She paused, only because she felt herself on the verge of tears once more. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "Listen to me. I think I've sobbed on your shoulder enough. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?" 

"Please. Strong and black." 

~*~*~*~ 

They sat there, together, bathed in a comfortable silence only enhanced by the warm glow of the roaring fire.   
Vaughn leaned into the cushions of the couch, his eyes now encompassed by a gentle hazel, piercing through the screen straight to the bright flames. Sydney sat facing him, resting on her heels, a mug of chai wrapped between her fingers. She peered into the depths of space, desperately seeking consolation for the pain that just could not seem to leave her alone. She unconsciously wet her lips, biting on the inside of her cheek. 

The same sentence was playing over and over again in her head like the broken record from hell. _My mother killed Vaughn's father. **MY **mother murdered his father._ She stopped in her mental ravings and looked up at his profile, her eyes scanning each feature with interest. His face was strong and well-boned, his expression kind and gentle. She wondered how he could look at her the way he did, with that kindness in those beautiful eyes. After analyzing every lock of hair, every curve of his cheek, she realized he really did look the part of the angel that he played. 

"Glad to see you smiling again," he said, his words barely piercing through her fog. She hadn't noticed the small grin that had formed on her lips and felt the blush as it spread itself thickly in her cheeks. He winked, arousing a laugh that she hadn't known was just begging to be released. She placed the mug down onto the table and adjusted herself slightly, settling into her previous position. She reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. He aligned his fingers with hers, folding them over and pulled her arm to his chest. It hadn't taken much effort and soon she had her head pressed against the firm muscles, her senses lulled by the beat of his heart. His left arm encompassed her protectively and with the pads of his fingers he began to softly stroke her hand in his. 

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. He cocked his eyebrow up curiously, waiting for her to continue. "The fire. I have no clue why Francie lit a log when its eighty degrees outside." He laughed and they both sighed. Tilting her chin so it rested where her ear. "Wait a minute...how did you get past Francie?" 

"Believe it or not I wasn't always a desk jockey," the reply came, followed by his laugh at the peculiar look on his face. "But you're right. It's gorgeous." A silence laced itself between the very thin sliver of space that separated them, broken by her sudden speech. 

"It reminds me of my mother." She paused and met his eyes. 

"Go ahead." 

"When I was a kid, the birthday before she died, my dad sent us one of his famous care packages because he couldn't get back in time for my party. I remember having to wait the entire time to open that enormous brown box-she refused to let me sneak a peek or even go near it until everyone left and I was sitting in bed in my pajamas. Then she brought in with her engraved letter opener and helped me open it. There was a new book for her, and another smaller wrapped box for me. 

" Tucked into a bed of tissue paper was the most beautiful doll I'd ever seen. She had the smoothest skin and the brightest eyes, the color of dark violets. And that hair was amazing. It was this almost blinding firey red that felt real to the touch. That has got to be the one nice thing my father has ever done for me. Even _she_ was mesmorized. I was so excited that I slept with her that night, something I hadn't done in ages." 

He nodded and smiled. "That's a good memory. Keep it." A blank look was glazed over her eyes until she spoke again. 

"Shaeda." 

"What?" 

"That's what I ended up naming her. It's Persian, and translated it means to love or to be in love with like a moth to a flame. My mother had a good friend in the better days named Shaeda. I thought the name was perfect, because my eyes always seemed to be drawn to her." 

"What ever happened to her? The doll?" 

"She was in the car when my parents got into the accident. The car was wrecked and they were really able to salvage any personal effects." She felt her eyes sting through the quickly pooling tears as he wrapped his arms even more tightly about her, embracing her as she cried silent tears of angst. 

Wrapped in his embrace she realized that they were just like her immaculate doll. Any hopes of a relationship was like a moth to a flame. Any love they had for each other could be ultimately fatal. But she knew it would be different. One day it would all change. They would be free to live. And to love each other. 

--   
I have absolutely NO clue where this came from...I had another ending for it but I stuck to this one...let me know what you think! 


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